


A Reptile Dysfunction

by Poose, trill_gutterbug



Category: The Losers (2010), The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Also a Perv, Bestiality, But Yeah Really Graphic Sex with a Dino, Consider Yourself Forewarned, Crack, Dinosaurs, Except Maybe the Title, F/M, Jensen is a Huge Fucking Nerd, Other, PWP, Sexual Fantasy, That's Honestly Pretty Shameful, We Apologize for Nothing, With Questionable Sexual Tastes, Yes a Literal Dinosaur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3479045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey,” says Jensen suddenly aloud, before he can catch himself, “do lizards have dicks? Or is it all sort of internal, like a bird? What's that one-hole-fits-all thing they've got going on... Cloacas?” He swings around to Pooch. “It's called a cloaca, right?”</p><p>Pooch sways to a halt, looking exhausted, and lifts both hands in a resigned gesture of 'fuck, man, don't ask me.'</p><p>(Or, The Many and Varied Mental Perversions of Cpt. Jake Jensen)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Reptile Dysfunction

**Author's Note:**

> So, Poose and I were having an ill-advised late-night chat, and started talking about what a nerdy little wiener Jensen is, and how he probably has all kinds of heinously absurd sexual fantasies about a variety of sci-fi/fantasy scenarios. Like getting probed by aliens, or dry-humping Optimus Prime, or being ~*~kidnapped~*~ by a horny dragon, etc. 
> 
> And... this ridiculous excuse for a fic happened. Might someday get added to, as Jensen's filthy fucking mind continues to horrify and astound, but lbr, this is probably more than anyone wants to read.

“I'm just saying,” Roque grunts, slashing his machete sideways into a knot of creeper vines the size of Jensen's wrist, “there's gotta be better ways of doing this. Ways that reflect the fact that we live in the goddamn twenty-first century. Like, oh, I don't know, a helicopter?”

“And I'm just saying,” Clay yells back from somewhere far enough ahead that Jensen, even leaning to peer around Roque, can't hope to see him through the matted wall of trees and vines and twisted curling branches between them, “that if you want to get shot in the face by a hundred paranoid Colombians when we land our completely inconspicuous flying noise machine in their backyard, be my fuckin' guest, but I won't be joining you.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Jensen says, rubbing his face against the inside of his elbow. It doesn't help. He just gets sweat and dirt in his eyes, and has to spit out some kind of leaf-- or maybe a bug-- that tastes like feet. “Sorry, man, boss has a point.”

Roque makes a noise like a water-buffalo with a wedgie and goes into a fit of hacking like a man possessed, foliage and dirt flying in all directions. Jensen ducks, stumbling backward into the heap of felled greenery in their wake. “Watch it,” he yelps. “You're going to take my head off!”

“Then quit crawling up my ass!” Roque snaps. His shirt is completely plastered to his back, dark with sweat, and he's bleeding down both arms from scratches and bug bites. They all are; they've been clawing through this goddamn jungle since six am. “You're supposed to be clearing a trail back there, not giving me a fucking colonoscopy.”

“Jesus, alright,” Jensen mutters. Nothing makes Roque grouchy quite like the combination of questionably-necessary manual labour and temperatures in the high 90s.

“Chill out,” Pooch says from behind Jensen, bringing up the rear with two hundred pounds of gear and weaponry strapped across his back. He's sweating as bad as Jensen, shirt tied around his neck, but still manages to look downright cheerful. He’d pulled the short straw on pack-duty, so if any of them have reason to bellyache, it's definitely Pooch. “No one's having a good time here, Roque, don't take it out on Jensen.”

“Yeah!” Jensen says, dragging an armload of damp vines and spiny branches out of Pooch's way. “Don't take it out on me.”

“Yeah!” Clay echoes from up ahead, where he and Cougar are clearly experiencing a more harmonious team dynamic than the one going on back here. “Don't hurt Jensen's feelings, Roque, you know how he gets all splotchy and snotty when he cries.”

“Hardy har, Colonel,” Jensen yells. “I really appreciate the great example of positive morale and social consideration you exemplify for the impressionable troops.”

“Don't mention it, I always ace my sensitivity courses!”

Jensen exchanges a cocked brow with Pooch, and by then Roque's plowed far enough ahead that Jensen can start clearing again. He sets to it with at least eleven percent more dedication than before. The end is sort of in sight, after all. If they can make it out of this fucking hell dimension sometime before nightfall, that would be extra peachy. Jensen does _not_ relish the idea of weathering a night in the Amazon, because, jaguars and poisonous insects aside, he's seen Jurassic Park enough times to know that not even tying yourself to a tree forty feet off the ground is a guarantee against raptors. Plus, he fucking hates heights.

“Pooch,” he says, after they’ve travelled maybe a tenth of a klick, “what do you think about dinosaurs?”

“Uh,” says Pooch, clambering over a fallen tree trunk that Jensen hadn't even bothered trying to move, “like in an epistemological sense?”

“Like in a growing-them-in-a-lab-and-releasing-them-upon-the-innocent-unsuspecting-populace sense,” Jensen says, to clarify things.

“Oh, right, that sense.” Pooch manages to roll his eyes with his voice. “Honestly, I think that'd be a major dick move.”

“Sure,” Jensen allows, trying to yank free of an enormous leafy bramble that's twining between his ankles. “But cool, am I right?”

“Completely cool, yeah,” Pooch says, “if getting ripped limb from limb by giant lizards is your idea of a good time.”

“I mean,” Jensen continues, kicking the bramble away and lifting a big twisted branch out of Pooch's path, “what a waste, though. Raptors must go for a couple billion apiece once all the lab fees and DNA sequencing and extra petri dishes are factored in. Who'd want to let something like that go in a city? It'd probably get run over by a bus in ten seconds.”

“Probably,” says Pooch, in the tone that means he's already deep in the process of disembarking from Jensen's train of thought.

“If it were up to me,” Jensen continues, because Roque's managed to stir up some kind of colony of fat red flies that are swarming Jensen's head like a pack of sharks, and he needs a distraction from the stinging and sweating and itching, “I'd let 'em go somewhere like this, some deep dark jungle, and let nature take its course, y'know? They'd breed like--” He slaps the side of his neck, where something that feels substantially bigger than a fly has just taken a bite out of him. “--like these goddamn _bugs_ , mother _fucker_.”

“Oh, my God, shut the hell up,” Roque says over his shoulder. “Jensen, seriously. I'm about to put you out of both our miseries.”

Jensen sighs, but that just gets him a mouthful of flies, which is a much better reason to shut up than anything Roque's sweaty death-glare could threaten. He gives Roque a salute that is significantly less than half respectful, but obeys anyway. If no one else wants to hear about his legitimately awesome plan to save the rainforest with test tube dinosaurs, that is their own tragic loss. Besides, he might want to cash in on this plan without business partners; he'd probably get some kind of peace prize for putting an end to poaching and logging with the environmentally sound introduction of a few dozen raptors to the Amazon basin. Who'd want to fuck with the jungle when the jungle might literally jump on you with razor sharp talons and teeth the size of vegetable knives?

Of course, _he's_ fucking with the jungle right now, which is an uncomfortable thought. God, there are so many places for a raptor to jump out right now.

He casts an uncomfortable glance over his shoulder, but it's just Pooch back there. And Roque ahead, but lots of thick shadowy trees on both sides, and Jensen doesn't think his tree-climbing abilities are anywhere near graceful or speedy enough to save himself from a quick and bloody death. He doesn't even have a machete, and raptors are quick sons of bitches...

Or daughters of bitches, he corrects himself. All the dinos in the first Jurassic Park movie were female, after all, which means-- Hey, lesbian dinosaurs! Now _that's_ hot. That is hot, right? Yeah, it’s totally hot. Jensen tries to remember if there were any anatomically correct animatronic penises in the sequels, but Spielberg probably thought he had more important things to worry about than spending a million dollars on a dino dick. Boy, was he wrong. Was there _anything_ more important than dinosaur genitalia?

“Hey,” says Jensen suddenly aloud, before he can catch himself, “do lizards have dicks? Or is it all sort of internal, like a bird? What's that one-hole-fits-all thing they've got going on... Cloacas?” He swings around to Pooch. “It's called a cloaca, right?”

Pooch sways to a halt, looking exhausted, and lifts both hands in a resigned gesture of 'fuck, man, don't ask me.'

Jensen nods. “Yeah, it's totally a cloaca. There was this YouTube video I watched one time...” And even Jensen has the sense to keep his big fucking mouth shut about the details, because the team doesn’t need to know exactly how many times he watched that particular video before it got taken down. “I would show it to you, but it’s not there anymore. Copyright infringement, I guess, or maybe--” he trips over a root Roque has left in his wake “--maybe because it was too explicit. I dunno, it was pretty gross, because it was really detailed shit about dinosaurs fucking. I guess they used CGI but it was vivid as all get out, and narration, too.”

From behind him, Pooch is stone cold silent. Jensen swivels around, swinging his arms wide, and walking a few steps sidelong. He needs Pooch to understand the full importance of the situation. “Do you even know how long a dinosaur’s dick must have been? Ten plus feet! According to some schools of paleontology, they had to do it in water just to keep from toppling over.”

Jensen stumbles back into the still figure of Roque, who has pulled up short ahead of them. “Oh, shit--” he starts, and then just as quickly, stops. The machete glints in Roque’s hand, catching the light of the late sun.

“I swear to God, boy,” he says, raising the weapon so it’s level with Jensen’s fucking throat, thank you very much, “that the loss of your tongue will in no way interfere with the mission parameters.” (Pooch, the goddamn traitor, snickers from behind Jensen.) “So will you please, for the last time, shut the fuck up?”

Jensen twists his face up and mimes zipping his lips. That appears to be enough to placate Roque, who turns back to his task with a grunt. Whatever, man. Jensen can keep quiet, even though he’s currently providing the main course in an all-you-can eat bug buffet, and losing enough blood to be light headed. The rest of the team staggers forward, cutting, clearing, and cussing all the while, and Jensen lets himself go to his happy place, because otherwise he’s going to pass out from dehydration and blood loss.

 

_Deep in the jungles of South America, in an eon unspecified, life has found a way. Our intrepid hero finds himself alone in Amazonia with only his wits to protect him. Try as he might, he cannot seem to hack his way out of the nightmare forest. Dusk is closing in. He is exhausted, bleeding, and with the last of his energy, seeks shelter before nightfall._

_Our hero staggers towards the sound of running water. His instincts, as always, are flawless. He finds himself in an open clearing overlooking a pristine waterfall that would be a tourist attraction if it weren’t eight hours on foot into the middle of fucking nowhere. He crouches to cup the crystalline water in his hands, drinking deeply. Nearby is a cave. Inside, he heaves aside piles of rocks to make a space to lean against the wall. One rock he tucks beneath his head to use as a pillow. It is strangely leathery and round._

_He falls into a sleep so deep that when the nudge of a sharp nose on his scratched and tender neck wakes him -- hours or days later, he cannot tell -- it takes him a long moment to realize that the thing which has awoken him is very far from human..._

 

An eye blinks down at him, a big eye in a big face and-- Oh.

Oh, holy shit, that’s--

That is a goddamn dinosaur. He is looking up at a goddamn dinosaur, and it is looking back at him.

Of course, Jensen isn't scared. Despite the enormity of the head swaying above him, the width of the mouth and the breadth of the thick green neck, and the way his heart leaps as he recoils against the cave wall, he’s already convinced he’s in no danger.

His lightning-quick powers of observation have already told him it’s an herbivore, for one. He recognises the smooth dome of its skull and the crown of cranial spikes, the crooked angle of its two small arms dangling above his outstretched legs. It had been number three on the dinosaur wall poster he’d had as a kid. A Pachycephalosaurus, if he recalls correctly. Plant eaters, herd animals.

For two, the casual way it's inspecting him, leaning in close like the possibility of mutual hostility hasn't even crossed its mind, puts Jensen's initial lurch of alarm to rest. This thing's probably never seen or smelled a mammal his size before, much less a primate.

“Hey, there,” he murmurs, and in spite of the long nap and the weird awakening, his voice only goes a little creaky right in the middle. But the dinosaur rears back like he shouted, blowing out a startled breath that blasts over Jensen's face, warm and earthy. It scuttles back on two big legs, swiveling its long neck side to side, and stops a safe distance away, near the cave's entrance.

Jensen carefully doesn't move. He stays on his back with his hands up, spine crooked awkwardly against the pile of rocks, feeling like an idiot. Obviously, if this thing's never _seen_ a human before, it's definitely never heard one speak.

And now that it's retreated, Jensen can see what he hadn't before; a dozen more shapes just like it milling at the cave entrance and just outside. They're all dark green creatures, light under-bellies, two-legged and two-armed. Maybe eight feet long, head to tail. They're thick with muscle in the shoulders and haunches, graceful rounded creatures like enormous scaley geese. Jensen gasps a helpless giggle. He wants to whoop with excitement, punch the air and break into song like a six-year-old, but he restrains himself, grinning like an idiot instead.

Slowly he lowers his hands and makes a gentle click with his tongue. He hopes that's a less foreign kind of vocalisation, because he really needs a good look at this dino up close again, for science. It's poised near a cluster of its friends, peering at him with a suspicious tilt to its head. Jensen clicks again, and adds a little kissy noise at the end. It takes everything he has not to coo, “C'mere, baby, there's a pretty girl, I ain't gonna hurtcha,” because this thing isn't a _puppy_.

His restraint seems to pay off. The dinosaur lowers its head by increments, and takes a cautious step toward him, and then another. Jensen bites his bottom lip hard, squirming with excitement as it approaches. He wants to reach out when it gets close enough, hold up his hand for a sniff, but he doesn't dare. He keeps clicking, quiet and soothing, and nearly shakes out of his skin when it stops right next him. He squeezes his eyes shut for a long second, but it's still there when he opens them.

“Hey,” he breathes. This is just too much; he can't not say _something_. That's what humans do, right, as a species? Talk incessantly, document their experiences?

But the dinosaur doesn't spook this time. It rolls its neck like it's trying to parse Jensen from every angle, turning its head to fix him with first one eye, then the other. The cave is dark, but his own eyes have adjusted enough that he can see the flat, unblinking appraisal in the dinosaur's gaze. He can see all the ridges and horns down its face, sharp little tusks of bone, like stalagmites. The head lowers, coming closer, and Jensen goes tense all over with anticipation, with nervousness--

But the wide snout moves right past him, under his bent arm, and nudges at... the ground? No, at the rock he's laying on. It's an insistent nudge, too, and nearly topples Jensen right over. He reaches down without thinking, grabbing for balance, and-- Oh. That's... definitely not a rock. He slides his hand over it, the smooth round surface giving softly beneath his fingers. The dinosaur nudges again, and Jensen feels the scrape of its face against his bare inner arm, rough and pebbly and nothing any other human in the universe has felt before. He goes prickly with goose bumps all up his side, and barks a quick giddy laugh before he can stop himself.

The dino recoils, but only a few inches this time, and Jensen takes advantage of the extra space to ease himself sideways off the rock, or-- off the egg. Because it _is_ an egg, he's sure of it. There are at least three of them piled around him, dark brown and almost cylindrical, like turtle eggs. He gently slides the nearest one toward the dinosaur. It must be a female, he realises, if it's caring for a nest. Squinting, Jensen can see other egg-shapes all over the cave floor. A lot of them, actually, maybe dozens. He's managed to pick a fucking dinosaur nesting ground to nap in. God, he's a dumbass.

The creature in front of him doesn't seem too concerned by his accidental invasion. She swings her head overtop Jensen to snuffle at the other two eggs, and he nearly hyperventilates at the close press of her lowered chest to his leg, the movement of air as she whuffs softly. Her throat vibrates just a couple inches above his belly, a creaky ticking noise like a hundred crickets. Hardly daring to breathe, Jensen lifts one shaky hand and touches his fingertips to the underside of her throat. She doesn't startle, and that is all the invitation he needs.

He cups his palm gingerly into the softness beneath her jaw, where she's vibrating the hardest. The bones there are wide and solid brackets, the skin loose and warm, ridged with scales. “Oh, wow,” he whispers. She turns her head, neck bending into a crooked S, and examines him up close, so near he can taste every breath she exhales, sweet and tart with grass. Her teeth are little glinting punctuation marks against the lipless line of her mouth.

“Hi,” Jensen says, so quiet it's barely a sound. His heart is throwing a fit against his ribcage. “Hi, beautiful, how are you?”

She vibrates a little harder, the sound rising into a series of ticking growls, and shifts her weight from one back foot to the other. It makes her chest press into him harder, and that sends a little sickly thrill through Jensen. He's not scared of her tiny teeth, but the sheer weight of her could probably crush him in a minute flat if she stepped on him, or whacked him with her big bony head...

But she's not going to. He can tell. The way she's looking at him, so deep and close and careful, kicks off something warm and blossoming inside him, giddiness, awe, excitement. Slowly, he slides his hand up from under her jaw, runs it along the broad flatness of her face. He touches the ridge of her brow, the struts of bone down her nose, the deep hollows under her sharp eyes. He flinches, ticklish and edgy, when she relaxes against him and her two small arms touch his stomach. The curved talons scratch at his shirt, an easy forgetful sort of movement that could probably shred him in a hot second if she wanted.

When she pushes her snout against the side of his face, he's powerless to stop her. The strength in her neck alone is probably ten times anything he could muster. He tilts his neck to let her have her exploration, and she nudges at the point of his jaw, snuffles down his neck and into one armpit. Jensen bites his cheek savagely to keep from yelping at the tickle, jerking helplessly when she huffs hard.

She sniffs down a little farther, and the first swipe of her tongue is startlingly rough. Like a sheet of damp sandpaper, it rasps the underside of his arm, curling all the way around it.

“Whoa, what?” he says, but in a holy-shit-that's-cool way. The next lick hurts more than it probably should, a prickling burn like stinging nettles. Jensen thinks immediately of poisonous salivary compounds, paralytic agents, bacterial counts, and nearly pulls away. But then he remembers the hours of sweating and thrashing and hiking that had brought him here, all the insect swarms and thorned plants he'd fought through, the way his arms had been raw with scrapes and bug bites, bleeding sluggishly. He'd been too tired to wash in the pool outside, staggering in still bloody and dripping with sweat. He must taste like the world's gnarliest salt lick.

She seems to think so too, because she keeps licking the crook of his elbow-- once, twice, three times. Her tongue is thick and mobile, catching at all the bites he'd scratched open earlier in sharp-nailed frustration. Goosebumps race up his arms, across the back of his neck. He's only wearing a t-shirt, and it's ripped in more places than he can count, stiff with sweat and dirt. Her next couple licks tug at the hem of his sleeve, pulling it tight against his bicep. Jensen hesitates, and then reaches slowly across himself to hook two fingers under the cuff. She licks the back of his hand, tongue sliding between his knuckles, and he rips the sleeve with an almost reflexive jerk.

She cocks her head at the rasp of tearing material, pulling back, but ducks in again almost immediately when Jensen exposes the new warm flesh of his upper arm, turns his elbow to show her the underside. She shoves her nose right in, jostling him with her big crested snout and the strut of her jaw. Her little horns bruise his ribs when she swivels to curl her tongue against the curve of his tricep.

He's starting to prickle with new sweat, shivering under a tingly heat that's rushing all through his limbs, percolating in his belly. His fingers are twisted in the torn sleeve of his shirt; he tugs it higher, and her tongue dips in to taste the crook of his armpit. It tickles so bad Jensen almost squeaks, but shuts his mouth at the last second. He squirms and holds his breath, trying to pull his arm back against his side, but she's having none of it, and nudges him so roughly he gasps.

It's probably safer just to give in, and-- and anyway he doesn't want her to _stop_ , not really. He might as well get it over with. So he lifts his arm and stretches it up over his head. It's like intensive meditation, forcing himself to stay still while she licks him out, her neck snaked around to get at him. The side of her face is right up against his own and Jensen shuts his eyes, tilting his head to touch his hot cheek to the cool scaley slope of her brow.

“Shit,” he whispers, digging his nails into his other wrist to keep himself still. “Fuck, I can't, that's--”

He doesn't even know what it is. It's too much, that's for sure, the long darting swipes of her tongue into the tender hollows of his armpit, flickering at the top of his ribs. Maybe he can distract her somewhere else, draw her onto greener pastures. With his free hand, he reaches for the bottom of his t-shirt and starts ratcheting it up his belly. It's difficult, laying down and half pinned under her, but he manages to get it up his chest. Lots of yummy salt and sweat down there, dried in the cuts of his abs and the curls of hair between his pecs.

“Hey, check this out,” he says, clenching his teeth against the awful tickling stroke of her tongue. He taps his fingers against his belly, but of course she doesn't understand what that means. She knocks his head sideways with the side of her snout and start licking his neck.

 _That_ \-- okay, _that_ is too much. Jensen can't move, can barely inhale under the insistent way she presses the side of his face into the ground, and even worse is how she's relaxing even further, easing more of her weight onto him. It's hard to catch his breath, and her tongue is slithering around to the back of his neck, the base of his throat, the ridge of his collarbone, and oh _God_ , he _can't_.

Without thinking, he reaches up and shoves her. It doesn't work, she's too solid to be swayed, but the flail of his arm catches her eye. She turns to follow, and he holds still to let her lick it too. This one is more tender than the other, inflamed the whole length with bug bites and welts. She rasps it from wrist to elbow, even more thoroughly than the first, and by the time she starts nosing into his armpit, she's rumbling in her throat again. Jensen thinks it must be a happy noise, or at least a pleased one.

He's so twitchy with nerves and oversensitivity that he can't gather the coordination to fight her when she forgoes ease of access altogether and just pushes her tongue up under the hem of his sleeve and into the damp heat of his armpit. He can't keep her away, she's too strong, but the enthusiastic way she eats him out-- like a fucking pussy, he thinks, wet and tender and too sensitive, snuffling into the deepest crevices-- means she's done with this one a lot quicker, and then she does move down to the bare length of his belly. It lifts some of her weight when she shuffles back for a better angle, and Jensen takes a deep appreciative breath.

He lifts his head to watch her, and it's easier to see at this angle, the way she licks him from navel to nipples. He has to tip his chin out of the way when she gets to the top of his chest, or risk a bloody nose. This is ticklish too, the tender points of his nipples chafed and tightening. He pinches one, wincing, and his fingers come away damp with her saliva. He hesitates, and then slips them into his mouth. It doesn't taste like much, maybe a little musky, but his mouth flushes wet and he has to swallow twice.

She's enjoying the taste of him just fine. The hard point of her jaw drags the length of his torso, up and then down, following the path of her tongue. His ribs are ticklish, and he flinches when she tucks her neck to lick his trembling sides. His fingers are still in his mouth, hooked behind his teeth, and he bites them to keep quiet, sucks to distract himself. It's only when the bottom of her bony chin bumps the head of his dick that he notices he's hard.

“Oh, man,” he mumbles around his fingers.

Her eyes flick up at the sound of his voice. The cave is too dark to make out their colour, or the shape and size of her pupils, but Jensen imagines a curious warmth in the way she looks at him. The rumbling noise revs up a notch, vibrating in her throat. Her big back legs shift, bend, and she settles on her haunches, lowering herself onto her small folded arms. The length of her neck presses all the way up Jensen's side and across his hip. If he wanted, he could hug her entire head without even sitting up.

“You're so beautiful,” Jensen says, slurring around his fingers. He takes them out of his mouth and they're shaking. Just a little. Tentatively, he holds them out to her. She sniffs them with breath that steams out damp and grassy. She could probably bite them right off, little herbivore teeth or not, but Jensen doesn't think the way he's trembling is from fear. Not when she noses his wrist so carefully, gently, and curls her tongue between his fingers.

“Yeah, there you go.” Jensen turns his palm up, letting his fingertips rest on the underside of her chin. “Such a pretty girl, aren't you the prettiest?”

With his other hand, he reaches under her neck and yanks at the button of his jeans. It's fucking difficult, getting them open, pulling down the fly. It snags halfway, and he's pretty sure he breaks the zipper.

She lifts her head, peering down between them with interest, when he starts shoving his jeans down his hips. He's wearing boxers, tight and damp and sitting crooked, but he only manages to lift his ass enough to get his jeans caught around his upper thighs before she ducks to investigate.

It's immediately more alarming than he'd bargained for, the conjunction of her big deadly face with his remarkably vulnerable junk, but there are no take-backs at this point. She huffs across the tent in his boxers, an inquisitive sniff that makes Jensen slip one protective hand over his cock, give it a squeeze. He rubs once, groaning, and hooks a thumb in the waistband.

“You promise not to chomp it off?” he whispers, and of course she doesn't answer, but he's going to take that as an affirmative. He slides the waistband down slowly, because he doesn't want to smack her in the face with his dick or anything, but she starts licking the lowest dip of his belly before he's even halfway done, right where he's over-sensitive and ticklish. He nearly elbows her by accident.

“Aw, shit,” he mumbles, hand cupped around the base of his dick, inside his shorts. He can feel his pulse in it, jumpy and strong. “You want this? It probably--” His voice cracks and he has to pause, tense up hard where she's snuffling at the slender cut of hip and groin. “It probably tastes really fucking good. If you-- I mean, if you like that sort of thing.”

Her chin bumps his hand and-- yeah, he really doesn't want her stabbing him down there with her sharp little horns. He pushes the boxers under his balls, and his dick does smack her when it pops out, but it doesn't even faze her. Jensen circles the bottom of his cock with two fingers and pushes it up against her. She's still-- oh god, she's still vibrating in her throat, and he nudges the head into the soft place just behind her chin, where the feeling is strongest.

“Fuck--” he gasps, thrusting up helplessly. Her tongue skates the base of his cock, the side of his balls, and that makes him whine. The tip of his cock drags all along the side of her jaw, cool and rough with the pattern of her scales. And then she rears up and licks his cock, holy god, she licks it all the way from the bottom where his hand is clenched, to the top where his foreskin is cinched tight around the crown. Jensen's whole body seizes up, shoulders coming off the ground completely.

“Goddamn,” he groans. This was such a mistake, such a-- such a perfect, excruciating mistake, because her _tongue_ , Jesus, it's too rough for this. His dick is too sensitive. He slides his hand up to protect himself from the terrible rasp, but he can't cover everything at once. She _does_ like the taste, because she's not stopping. She shifts on her haunches, resettling, and Jensen feels the sudden pressure of one claw on his thigh. Holding him still. Holding him down.

His cheeks go so warm, flooding heat up his neck, that his eyes prickle with it. He wants to cross his legs, but his jeans are tangled around them and the weight of her neck is keeping his knees apart. He reaches to put his other hand protectively over the head of his cock, cupping it, but her tongue shoves in between his fingers, and oh-- oh, well, that's okay. Just a flickering touch is alright, not too intense.

He spreads a little gap between two fingers, right at the flare of the head where his foreskin still covers it, and her tongue slides over it so perfectly, washing his hands. He pulls at himself twice, clumsily masturbating, and digs his thumb at the sensitive notch on the underside. This is fine, this he can handle.

But obviously she's not nearly as impressed as he is, because she gets more insistent. With the same unerring focus she'd put into his armpits, she pushes her big tongue between his fingers, digging in, and it's too slippery. His fingers slide, just a fatal half-inch, and the tip of his cock gets licked all the way across, sharp and good. Jensen yelps out loud, grabbing at himself again, but it's too late for that. She's got the advantage.

She noses his cock flat against his belly and licks it thoroughly, long wide strokes that start at his balls and end at the tip. Jensen jams the side of his fist into his mouth and shuts his eyes, whining. But then he opens them again because, as unbearable as this is, as painful and delicious and awful as it is, he can't _not_ _look_. There's a fucking dinosaur going down on him. And-- and he'd better appreciate that as much as physically possible, because it's not something that happens every day.

With the hand he's not grinding his teeth on, he reaches to push his cock up, point it right at her. Her tongue curls around his wrist, and he pulls his foreskin back a half inch with his trembling thumb. Just a bit, just to expose a little of the damp red head and the thin slit he can feel getting slick. He touches at it, but her tongue gets there first, wiping away his wetness, leaving her own.

“Aww, baby girl,” he groans as she does it again, and then again. Too much, it's too fucking much. He squeezes himself, gently tugging down the foreskin another quarter inch. He's almost numb with the steady thoroughness of her licks, thighs shaking. It's not going to take much more to make him come, and he's probably going to be sore for days afterward, friction-burned and tender, the worn cotton of his boxers unbearable on his dick.

“There you go, please,” he says, soft and chattery. “Please, yeah, ohhh...” He's pushing his ass up as best he can, pumping his cock toward her, tugging at it. He's so _goddamn close_ , gonna come like a geyser, and she'll probably love the taste of that, lick him all over until he's _crying_ about it, fighting her with no hope of winning. “Fuck, uh huh, I'm--” he groans, tensing up, cock twitching, and there it comes, there it fucking comes--

Something clatters. Something outside, a rock falling, or a clumsy footfall, and she lifts her head to look, swivelling away with a horrible casual speed.

Jensen deflates explosively, gasping. His cock juts up in his hand, rigid and throbbing with heat, thwarted. “No no no,” he begs, hand cramped at the base of it, dripping with saliva and sweat, so fucking close he can feel it in the back of his throat. “No no, wait, come back here. _Please_.”

But there's another clatter, and Jensen's vision is swimming too much to see what's going on, but the other dinosaurs are still milling outside the cave, and they don't look excited, so it can't be anything that important. Nothing could possibly be more important than having a fucking orgasm.

Clearly she doesn't agree, because she pulls away from him entirely, pushing herself up, and turns around toward the entrance. Jensen reaches after her helplessly, whining, and nearly gets clobbered with her tail when it swings out behind her.

“Fuck,” he sobs, flat on the ground, cock bare and pants down. He watches her take two steps toward the cave entrance, head lifted to scent the air. She's silhouetted against the sky for a moment, the spikes and the breadth of her shoulders entirely, provocatively alien. Jensen shudders.

“Hey,” he calls, making himself sound gentle and coaxing when all his voice wants to do is crack. He makes a kissy noise, a slurred and wet one. “Come here, baby, come back here.”

She cocks a glance at him, but just as easily looks away. Nothing is happening outside, no danger or drama, and Jensen watches with desperate anticipation as her attention drifts. She looks sideways at a cluster of eggs on the ground near her feet and stretches her neck to nudge them, roll them and snuffle them.

“Heyyyy,” Jensen moans, but this time she doesn't even look. Not really. He thinks she's peering at him from the corner of her eye, head tilted just enough to see him. She's _testing_ him, she's _teasing_ him.

Fuck it, fuck this. He's going to come, he has to.

He gives himself one stroke, one hard good rub that aches all the way through, and he's watching her, watching her watch him and pretend she's not, sweat stinging in his eyes, then her tail gives a little thrash and her big hips shift and-- oh.

Oh.

That's.

 _Oh_.

“Whoa, shit,” he breathes. Because that's her cloaca right there. Right under the thick base of her tail, barely visible in the gloom of the cave, but clearly a thin horizontal slit in the light scales of her underbelly. Jensen sits up, cradling his cock. His jeans bunch, and he shoves at them. He steadies himself on the leathery hide of the egg next to him and pushes up to his knees. She doesn't move, but she's watching him more blatantly now, neck craned.

“Do you--” he starts, and then stops. Actions probably speak louder than words right now. He climbs unsteadily to his feet and kicks out of his jeans, nearly trips stepping over the eggs and the uneven floor. He catches himself against her side, the high solid round of her haunch. It moves under his hand, the muscles flexing, flesh cool but so alive.

He lets go of his cock and settles that hand shakily on the upper curve of her tail where it flares into her spine. He rubs her there, digs his knuckles in. Her tail moves a little more, twisting aside, rustling against the dry floor. It makes his hand drop lower, to the underside of her tail, and from there it's only a few inches to touch his fingertips to the strange giving flesh around her cloaca.

His whole body clenches up at the sensation, a spasm that starts in his cock and shoots outward. He has to lean against her back leg, panting. Can he do this? Can he honestly stick his cock in a fucking dinosaur? Is she actually going to let him?

Only one way to find out. He takes a step sideways, closer into the vee of space between her leg and the extended curl of her tail. His fingers slides farther beneath her, and, oh Jesus, dip inside.

It's a wide slot, but narrow; three fingers fit easily, but just the tips. It's only slightly damp, warm and quivering. Even as he leans against her, fumbling to fit himself into position, she lowers herself for him. Her pelvis tilts up, widening. Inviting. He spits in his hand, messy, and rubs it over his cock. Careful, careful, God, he's so close.

It's difficult to get the angle right, their anatomies so dissimilar, but Jensen's got commendations on record for persistence, creative thinking, and dedication to difficult tasks; he feeds his cock one slow inch at a time into her snug hole.

It's _tight_ in places he's not used to, strangely angled, at once slippery and rough on the sensitive swollen flesh of his cock. He jerks against her, grinding deeper, and she makes a strange little noise; a chirrup or a click. He's jittery, sweating almost too much to see, but he feels her swing her head around toward him, stretched back along the length of her own spine. Her neck isn't long enough to get to him, but he reaches for her with the hand not guiding his cock, touches her snout with the tips of his fingers.

She squeezes down around him inside, and he fucks helplessly into her twice, three times. Holy God, he's going to come inside this dinosaur. He's going to shoot all this hot thick jizz up into her, drain his balls in her strange and wonderful body. He braces himself with one foot, presses his crotch tight to her underbelly, thrusts and grinds with all the desperate clamour of animal voracity. He touches at the place where his cock penetrates her, the thick smooth flesh that parts around him.

Fuck, oh fuck, here it comes, huge and rushing, unbearable. He grips mindlessly at her back, hammers his cock into her as hard as he can--

~*~

\--and stumbles over a tree root and crashes face first into Roque with a startled yelp.

The change is dizzying, catastrophic, finding himself back in the present, the fantasy dissolving as quickly and completely as snow under a blowtorch. He's frozen right back where he started, the scorching sun above the jungle canopy, the high drone of flies, the muffled sound of Clay talking up ahead.

And... And the boner he's jabbing into the small of Roque's back.

It's that last element of the situation that finally snaps him to attention. He backpedals so fast he trips, just barely catching himself on a dangling vine, and babbles the first thing that crosses his mind. “Holy actual jumping baby Jesus, Roque, I'm so fuckin' sorry, that was _not_ for you, man, I _swear_ , it's those-- it was this dinosaur, she was there, and I just, I--”

He stops. He stops completely, and slaps a hand over his own mouth. Behind him, Pooch starts to giggle.

Roque's back is a solid, unmoving fortress of silent doom ahead of him. Jensen watches his fingers uncurl slowly from the machete handle, and then tighten again. Ohhhhh, geez, oh geez, not good. Jensen's just standing here like an idiot with a huge obvious boner, short of breath and turned on like gangbusters, and he's about to die with a hard-on. He's going to die with a goddamn erection and they'll have to chop it off to fit him in the casket and someone's going mention it in his obituary--

“What's the hold-up?” Clay bellows up ahead.

Jensen squawks behind his hand.

“Nothing!” Pooch shouts, which is even more startling at close range. Jensen shuts his eyes really tight. “Just a water break, we're right behind you.”

A heavy hand claps down on Jensen's shoulder. He cracks one lid open at Pooch, who's grinning at him in a way that is not at all nice or friendly.

“Did I just hear you say 'dinosaur'?” he asks.

“Ummmm,” says Jensen.


End file.
